


Trust Lessons

by SlimeQueen



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Biting, But mostly porn, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dry Humping, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multiple Orgasms, Omega Peter Parker, Peter is 18, Polyamory, Praise Kink, Quentin Beck Is A Horny Clown, Rimming, Scent Marking, Self-Lubrication, Size Kink, Spooning, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-07-29 07:57:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20078806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlimeQueen/pseuds/SlimeQueen
Summary: Peter and Quentin Beck have an arrangement of sorts, ever since the first time in Italy. Outside of work, a strictly between-the-sheets kind of arrangement. Wade wants in on it, and there’s definitely enough Peter to go around.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> excuse me if there are a few typos i cant look directly at this anymore bc its too horny  
(also i cant believe not one person has capitalized on jake gyllenhaal and ryan reynolds' disastrous friendship and equated it with both their characters' relationships with spiderman so here i am)

Quentin’s thoroughly distraught about how little effort it takes to make Peter Parker cum. 

The kid’s practically a livewire, strung so tightly that all it takes are a couple of deep, sloppy kisses and strokes of his fingers to make Peter come undone, fine tremors quaking through his body, tears welling up in his eyes. 

Quentin’s not much in the business of being rough, not in the way Peter had expected, at least. He doesn’t need to pick Peter up around the tapered waist and throw him around to make him submissive and pliant. He’s always had a way with words, and the way he can talk Peter’s soft voice into going from “Mr. Beck” to a half-wrecked sob of “_Daddy, please,_” is almost too easy. 

Surprisingly, Peter had been the one to make the proposal. The turning point of their relationship had been at the bar the night before their first skirmish, when Quentin had taken him out for a drink. Peter, ever the dorky, shy kid, hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol, hadn’t even looked him in the face, really, until Quentin had slid his barstool so close that Peter’s warm, inviting scent had permeated the air around them both. Quentin’s never met an Omega hero before, and his resolve and courage had only made Peter even more enticing.

There’d been a lot of heat-filled glances then, and though it had been Quentin’s _plan_ to seduce the kid as much as possible, the attraction had been surprisingly genuine. Quentin _likes_ the kid, he really does. Peter’s sweet in a way not many people truly are, and he’s like that to the core. 

The Alpha in him wants to take Peter back to the hotel room Nick Fury had gotten for him in Venice, a beautiful penthouse that overlooked the city, wants to strip Peter down and have his way with him. 

That would be straying far too much from the plan, though. It would be much too risky to indulge so much, so he pushes those thoughts down. He smiles charmingly at Peter instead, and allows himself to bask in the lush thick scent for just a second before he reigns it in and takes control back. 

Being defeated by Peter is a whole other story. After his plan’s demise, he’d retreated to lick his wounds, and then it had become like a cycle. Villainous plan, fight Spider-Man, either gain an upper hand or have his plans thwarted, repeat.

He knows Peter has other recurring characters in his life as well, but he likes to think that he and Peter have had more of a relationship than most of them. Peter had opened up for him, once, and despite his logical side’s best attempts at warning him against it, he wants to see Peter in an intimate setting again.

He gets his chance at Peter’s own behest, much to his surprise.

He’d lifted his hands in surrender after a particularly brutal fight ending with Peter on top, quite literally; Spider-Man perched on his hips and pinning him down, his body just too high up Quentin’s torso for him to feel the firm, round press of Peter’s ass through their suits where he wants it. 

Peter’s breathing heavily enough that Quentin can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest through the clinging material of the spidey suit.

And then, Spider-Man takes him by surprise. He grabs the bottom of his mask, rolling it up to his forehead to reveal his flushed face underneath. Peter’s cheeks are red from more than just exertion, his pupils dark and blown. He says softly, “Can we talk?”

This is an open. He could push Peter away right now, flip their positions and pin him. Peter’s half gone, his eyes glazed over, and it would be so _easy_ to gain an upper hand. 

But something inside him is caught by the way beads of sweat clinging to the kid’s hairline, the flush covering his cheeks, and he finds himself nodding.

Peter scrambles back off his lap and leaps easily to his feet, holding a hand out for Quentin to take. His body’s much more bruised up from their scuffle, but Peter heaves him up with ease.

Perched on a rooftop overlooking the city, Peter says, “You feel it, don’t you? The attraction? I thought it was just be imagining it at first, but it’s not one-sided. My nose is better than most Omegas; I can smell it on you.”

Of course he’s felt it. Peter’s scent is like a beacon to him, proving their compatibility outright. It’s so difficult to keep his cool around the inviting warmth Peter’s scent glands exude. He wants to bury his nose in Peter’s neck, close his jaws around it and feel the skin give under his mouth. 

Quentin chooses his words carefully. “What do I smell like?”

“Like you want me.”

Peter presses his lips together in a thin line, fingers knotting anxiously together in his lap. His legs swing back and forth over the ledge of the roof. Every little facet of Peter is so fucking endearing, it’s like he bleeds Omega pheromones, and it rouses Quentin’s desire like gasoline to a flame.

“What do you want, Peter?”

The tips of Peter’s ears go red with embarrassment. He takes a deep breath, eyes closing briefly before they flutter open again. “You.”

The blush on his ears takes over his face again, and after a second of silence in which Quentin watches with some amusement as Peter’s flustered expression gets more and more obvious, Peter starts to ramble, “Well, you know, n-not like as a _mate_ or anything, but as a sex friend? We’re not really friends though, are we? Sex enemies? Frenemies with benefits? Wait, let me try—”

Quentin grabs Peter’s wrist and pulls him in for a kiss.

He had only allowed his brain to briefly dwell on what it would be like to kiss Peter Parker. There’s no use pondering over something that was unlikely to ever happen, he’d reasoned with the more carnal side of his brain. The one that finds itself watching the curve of Peter’s ass through the Spider-Man suit more often than it would like to admit.

He’d thought it would be much sloppier, considering Peter’s inexperience, but Peter’s a surprisingly good kisser. His skinny fingers clasp together behind Quentin’s head, threading through his hair and holding fast.

It’s only when Peter’s lips part and his tongue slides wet and hot against Quentin’s that he remembers, oh yeah, Peter had a girlfriend for a year.

There had been some point in between where Peter had smelled like another Alpha, a scent that had layered over Peter’s own warm, inviting one like a protective barrier. Quentin hasn’t been close enough to the tall, lanky Alpha woman to confirm what she’d smelled like, but it’s easy enough to guess that it’s her scent.

Her scent hasn’t been on Peter for a while, at least since Mysterio’s last skirmish with Spider-Man about three months ago. Peter should really be more careful about using scent maskers.

Peter’s the one to break the kiss, breathing heavily and rubbing at his jaw. “Your beard feels weird, Mr. Beck.”

Quentin raises an eyebrow at him. “Maybe we should set some ground rules.”

And so they do.

-

The first time is strange. Peter sits all hunched in on himself in Quentin’s apartment, feet together, hands clasped in his lap. He’d come through the front door instead of the fire escape like Quentin had half expected, dressed in a casual t-shirt and joggers. No Spidey suit or web slingers in sight. The set of his shoulders is rigid with tension as he settles on the couch, and when Quentin instinctively reaches a hand out and rubs his collarbone, it only makes him freeze up even more. 

“Parker,” Quentin sighs, removing his hand and sitting down next to him. “If I were going to do anything outside of our agreement, I would have done it already.” He takes up so much more space than Peter does, he can’t help but notice, from the wide spread of his thick thighs to the broader set of his shoulders. Like he’s realized the fact as well, Peter wraps his arms around his middle, face suspiciously red. 

Peter looks at him straight on for the first time since he’d arrived, eyes dragging dubiously across his face, holding his eyes for only a second, then down the length of his body.

“How do I know I can trust you?”

Quentin grins. “You don’t. That’s what makes this interesting for both of us.”

Peter swallows and nods slowly. “I was thinking,” he says contemplatively, “If you said something along the lines of “you can trust me,” I would take that as a sign that this was a mistake.”

“Smart boy.”

Peter’s mouth twists. He says wryly, “So I’ve been told.”

They’d decided on the rules very carefully; no heats, no work talk, no strings attached. The first two had been Peter’s wishes, while the last had been Quentin’s. It’s an easy enough agreement.

Having Peter in front of him, though—that’s almost awkward.

Quentin hates awkward. He’s an actor by nature, and if he needs to fall into the role of initiator to make Peter more comfortable, he can do that. “So, are you going to sit there all night?”

The tips of Peter’s ears turn red. He ducks his head and says in the softest voice Quentin has ever heard, “Where do you want me?”

Oh, god. He’s too much, he really is.

Quentin wraps his fingers around Peter’s shoulder and tugs him closer. His hands fall to Peter’s narrow waist to pull him gently until he gets the hint and crawls into the older man’s lap.

“Babydoll,” he drawls, and takes delight in the way Peter’s eyes darken in arousal, “I want you on every surface in this room.”

Peter makes a squeaky little noise as Quentin pulls him in for a kiss. His warm mouth is so pliant under Quentin’s, petite lips falling open at the coaxing of the Alpha’s tongue, his arms slinging over Quentin’s broad shoulders to hold on tightly. 

Quentin’s hands slide down from his waist to his thighs, gripping them where they’re straddling his hips, pulling him closer so they’re pressed together. 

Peter’s so small in his lap, his lean, muscular thighs flexing under Quentin’s palms, and when he runs his hands up Peter’s sides, dragging his shirt up with them, Peter moans into his mouth, arching at the feeling. 

“You wanna go to the bed?” Quentin asks, a sense of urgency heating his blood. “Or should I just bend you over the couch right now?”

Peter makes a choked noise, fumbling for words. “Bed,” he pants, “bed, please.”

He shifts even closer until they’re pressed chest to chest, burying his face in Quentin’s neck. Quentin feels him inhale, a shuddery breath that makes his lithe frame quake. 

Quentin’s fingers catch on Peter’s ribs as they travel up and down his sides in a pseudo-soothing motion, but the feeling only makes Peter more riled up, a low whimper escaping his mouth when Quentin’s hands grip his waist a little tighter. 

It’s getting more and more difficult to control himself when Peter’s exuding Omega pheromone like water from a burst pipe. The scent of Peter’s arousal clouds his senses, awakening something hot and dangerous in the pit of his belly. His hands slide down to Peter’s thighs, grabbing onto them.

He stands up without warning, and Peter squeaks, his thighs tightening on Quentin’s waist, arms locking around his neck. As strong as he is, Peter is tiny and weighs next to nothing in his arms. He carries Peter down the hall to the bedroom, Peter mouthing desperately at the junction of his neck and shoulder the whole way, and sets him down on the bed.

Peter blinks, a little disoriented with his new surroundings, but Quentin doesn’t give him a chance to look around. He presses Peter flat against the bed, knees on either side of him, hands near his head, to cage him against the sheets. Peter’s hands slide up from his neck to his hair, pulling him into another kiss. This one is sloppier, lacking the precision of their previous kisses, Peter’s tongue sweeping wet into his mouth, dragging over his lower lip.

He lets his hands wander, over Peter’s hip bones, his lean abdominal muscles, down between his legs to palm his hardening cock.

“You’ve done this before, right?” As he speaks, he feels Peter’s dick jerk against his palm and satisfaction blooms warmly in his chest.

Peter hums a positive against his mouth, his hips rolling up to meet the slow movement of Quentin’s hand. “Couple of times, yeah.”

“Was it that Alpha? She was cute, it’s a pity it didn’t work out.”

Peter’s eyes flutter shut, his breath shallow as his hips stir under Quentin’s touch, his fingers grasping at Quentin’s shoulders. From the downward twitch of the corner of his mouth, it’s obvious that he’s hit the nail on the head.

“Did she pin you down like this? Did she treat you like the slut you are?”

“She, she didn’t—_ah! _Didn’t believe in—” Peter’s hips buck forward, trying to catch friction against Quentin’s palm. He whines softly, “Mr. Beck, please.”

“She didn’t believe in telling you what to do, right? She didn’t want to be a domineering, aggressive Alpha. A noble thought, of course.” Quentin’s voice is like honey, smooth and flowing, simultaneously calming Peter and working him up. “But that’s not what you want, is it, Peter? Poor little Peter Parker, with all that responsibility thrust upon his shoulders. You _need_ an Alpha to tell you what to do, to remind you what a bad boy you’ve been. You need for someone else to take control, don’t you?”

Quentin’s lithe fingers stroke through Peter’s fluffy hair, far gentler than he has any right to be, and Peter’s eyes fall shut, his breath coming harsh through his mouth.

“Answer me, Peter.”

Peter’s voice doesn’t quite shake, but there’s a tremor building in it as he whispers, “Yes, Mr. Beck.”

Quentin makes a scoffing noise. “You don’t have to call me that.”

Peter’s silent for a second in which Quentin wonders desperately what he’s thinking, and then he says, “Yes, Daddy.”

A stream of arousal flows through Quentin’s body, hot and demanding. He brings the hand on Peter’s thigh higher, back up to where his dick strains through his sweatpants.

Peter’s gone wide-eyed and unsure again, quickly filling the silence with his rambling. “I’m sorry Mr. Beck, that was probably weird, I’ll, um, I won’t do that a—”

Quentin’s voice is a little rough when he interrupts, “You’re fine, you’re okay, baby boy.” Better than okay, if he’s being honest. He idly runs his knuckles up and down Peter’s dick through his pants. “Say it again, it’s okay.”

Peter hesitates for a second, and then he whimpers, “_Daddy_, take them off.”

It takes Quentin a second to get past the sheer thrill of the word and to understand what Peter’s actually saying. He glances down at his own hand curled loosely around the front of Peter’s sweatpants, palming against his little cock. 

Peter very helpfully lifts his arms up, letting Quentin tug his shirt over his head. It dishevels his bronzy waves a little bit, a lock of hair falling over his forehead until Quentin cards a hand through Peter’s hair and pushes it away. He moves back, dragging Peter’s pants down his legs as he goes, and tosses them over his shoulder to the bedroom floor. While he’s straightened, he pulls his own shirt off, and it follows Peter’s sweats. 

Peter remains taciturn, but his eyes widen fractionally and trace the firm lines of Quentin’s chest with an intensity he’s never seen on the Omega’s face before. His gaze dips lower still, remaining for a second on the sparse trail of hair that leads down to the buckle of Quentin’s belt before he raises it again, a faint blush on his cheeks. He reaches forward, hands hesitating for a second before his skinny fingers fumble with the belt buckle, undoing it and pulling Quentin’s jeans down his thighs. He does the rest himself, pushing them off and nudging them off the bed.

For what it’s worth, Peter looks really good right now too, his shoulders a little broader than the average Omega, the lean muscles in his body relaxed. Quentin presses his palms to Peter’s hips, sliding them up over warm skin, and he drags them inwards over Peter’s nipples, which harden under the insistent circling of his thumbs. Peter’s mouth is trembling a little, wide eyes darting from the veins standing out on Quentin’s forearms to the curve of his mouth, his breath sharp and quick.

“Stand up for me.” The confusion in Peter’s face is apparent, but he quickly rises up to his feet and off the bed, standing awkwardly in front of Quentin. His arms instinctively curl over his midsection, but one look from the Alpha has him moving them out of the way, curling his hands into loose fists at his sides. He’s hard already, cock about the same as an average Omega’s, pink and flushed and small enough to be covered completely by Quentin’s fist, if he so wished.

Peter’s skin is so warm under his broad hands, the span of them covering most of Peter’s narrow waist with ease. He rubs his thumb over Peter’s hipbone, pulling him a little closer until Peter’s standing between his spread legs.

Peter cries out, “Oh, _fuck_,” when Quentin mouths over his nipple, tongue flicking over the hardened bud, and threads his hands into the older man’s hair. His hips grind forward of their own accord, his cock smearing warm precum over Quentin’s stomach.

Quentin kisses a warm trail up his chest, bites down on his collarbone, and Peter presses his lips together hard to muffle the noise that bubbles up his throat.

As he sucks bruises into Peter’s soft skin, he lets his hands wander, massaging the tense muscles of Peter’s back, stroking down to curve over the soft curve of his ass. He drags two fingers between Peter’s cheeks, against his hole, and finds slick, warm and slippery, smearing against them.

Peter’s legs start shaking as he rubs his fingers back and forth, little whimpers of “_No, no, please, d-don’t_,” escaping his mouth between quaking breaths. Peter has two safe words for a reason, one for hard limits and one for soft, and Quentin had made sure he’d known how to use them. Neither of them have been spoken, so Quentin continues, slick dripping between his fingers.

It’s only when Peter’s knees buckle that Quentin pauses, easily catching him around the waist with one hand and folding him forward to keep him standing, glancing up at his face. His cheeks are red, eyes glazed over and glistening with—what the fuck, _tears_, thin lips trembling.

He can’t help it. “Open your mouth,” he demands of Peter, and to his delight, the Omega immediately drops his jaw. “Tap out if you want to stop.”

He slides his index and middle fingers into Peter’s mouth, unrelenting and deep, and the tears welling up in his eyes spill over. He lets Peter slide into his lap as he pushes his fingers deeper past Peter’s lips until he gags, throat bobbing with effort.

When he pulls them out, sticky threads of Peter’s saliva mixed with the slick stretch between his fingertips and Peter’s mouth.

Peter gasps for breath, and Quentin even gives him a second to before he shoves his fingers past spit-slick lips again, thrusting them lazily into Peter’s mouth. Peter’s hands come up to grip his forearm, a panicked look in his eyes, and Quentin throws out, “Breathe through your nose.”

Of course, Peter gags again, his shoulders jerking harshly, and after a second, Quentin pulls his fingers out again, smearing slick all over Peter’s mouth. Peter’s ribcage contracts rapidly as he takes in lungfuls of air.

Using his clean hand to wipe away the stream of tears leaking from Peter’s eyes, Quentin gives him a minute, and then asks softly, “You with me, sweetheart?”

Peter bites his lip. “Yeah,” he murmurs, nuzzling into his neck. “mhmm, wanna cum, please.”

Quentin has to suppress a bark of laughter at that. “Okay,” he says, carefully pushing Peter off his lap and onto the bed. “Yeah, fuck, come here.”

He pulls Peter onto his hands and knees, stroking his hand all the way down Peter’s hip until his fingers curl over his throbbing scent gland at the top of his spine.

Peter’s back arches, so beautifully as Quentin threads a hand into his hair, gripping it in a tight fist. He’s whimpering, hips moving back against Quentin’s clothed cock with unpracticed, shaky thrusts. He’s so fucking wet that the front of Quentin’s briefs are soaking through with his warm slick as it practically leaks out of him like a broken faucet. His dick throbs between his legs, aching to be buried inside Peter’s tight, perky little ass. 

Peter’s head bows down so his sharp shoulder blades shift under his skin, becoming prominent as he hangs his head. The nape of his neck is flushed, the scent gland there so swollen with arousal it’s making Quentin’s head cloudy. Peter’s unmarked nape is so tantalizing, the sight of it making saliva flood to Quentin’s mouth along with the urge to _bite_, to claim and mark the young Omega.

Instead, he nuzzles into Peter’s neck, nosing into where Peter’s hair is the shortest, his lips pressing against where the scent gland at the top of Peter’s spine throbs under his skin. Peter starts to moan, but the sound falls apart as Quentin parts his lips, licks over the swollen gland again and again, an almost animal-like ferocity taking over. Peter’s skin is so supple and soft, the scent of aroused Omega pouring from him, and Quentin can’t help licking and sucking at that sensitive spot that makes Peter’s entire body shake with pleasure. 

Peter keens brokenly in surprise, the noise high in his throat, and shudders so fucking hard that Quentin thinks for a second that the Omega’s legs are going to give out under him. He sobs, “n-_no_, not th-there, please!” 

Contrary to his words, as Quentin sucks the flesh between his lips, teeth barely grazing hot skin, Peter’s ass stutters back, humping against his cock at a desperate pace punctuated by his wrecked moans. 

Quentin shouldn’t— he _really_ shouldn’t, but he can’t help himself, and Peter has his safe word anyways, if he’s really opposed to it. He closes his teeth around Peter’s nape, not hard enough for it to be risky or to break the skin, but he bites, and Peter makes a strangled noise, mewling out, “_Daddy_!”

He could sink his teeth in right now and mark Peter as his, could make it so Peter wouldn’t be satisfied with anyone except him, by his _mate_. 

The urge to resist is so difficult while Peter’s grinding so desperately against him, his pretty little noises spilling out of parted lips. Peter’s scent gland seems to throb under his teeth, needy for the same thing. His body’s singing for him to be claimed, nature battling against better logic. From the way Peter’s keening, “D-Daddy, _no_, my, my—” and shuddering under him, the latter side is a formidable force. 

Quentin gathers his bearings and forces his jaw to relax and release Peter just a second before his instincts can compromise the situation and convince him to bite down all the way. _The rules_, he has to remind himself harshly.

Gaining composure after pulling away proves to be a lengthy and difficult task. He takes a second to calm his breathing and clear his head.

Peter’s panting under him, shivers making him quake every now and then. As if he’d…

“Peter,” Quentin says, voice rising in disbelief, “Did you cum?”

“Maybe,” his voice comes, soft and uncertain. 

Quentin snakes a hand around his waist, fingers finding his cock, and Peter gasps out, “Wait!”

His fingers come away slippery with Peter’s cum, glistening and warm. It’s stickier than the slick smeared over his hips and underwear, and when he rubs his fingers together, Peter moans in embarrassment.

He licks his fingers just once, from base to tip, holding careful eye contact with Peter, who turns away, burying his face in his arms. It tastes like—well, it tastes like cum. It’s thinner than his own, obviously, because Peter is an Omega, and so it’s a little more pleasant than an Alpha’s, diluting easily in his mouth.

“Don’t look away,” he tells Peter, who warily peeks over his shoulder, cheeks splotchy from crying, the last of his tears making his lashes spiky. “Pretty,” he comments without thinking, reaching out to card a hand through Peter’s hair.

“Tell me what you want,” Quentin says, voice so soft it comes out like a purr, “what do you want me to do to you, baby?”

Peter’s voice is shaking along with the rest of him, his ears red. “Can’t,” he whines, “Daddy, I-_ah!_” He cuts off as Quentin uses the fist he has buried in his fluffy hair to pull the cry from his throat. 

“You gotta tell me, Peter,” Quentin says, his voice devastating soft and coaxing. “Are you going to be a good boy for me?”

He’s always had a knack for this. Something about the low smoothness of his voice makes it so easy to master the art of persuasion, and Peter’s never been an exception.

Peter’s voice wobbles dangerously close to crying as he whispers, “Daddy, make me feel good,” embarrassment making his hands quake as he grips his ass, holding himself open for Quentin. 

Peter’s wet, Quentin knew that much already from the way he’d gotten the front of the Alpha’s briefs soaked through with slick from grinding against him, but as Peter parts his cheeks open, holding himself apart with his thumbs, it’s still a breathtaking sight. 

Peter’s entrance is small, unstretched and fucking virginal, his hole twitching to let out slick, which drips down the line of his ass. He can’t help but reach out two limber fingers, rubbing them over the puckered skin, and Peter makes a noise of relief.

He can’t help himself. Before he can think it through, Quentin slides down behind Peter, licks a broad stripe over the line of his ass, and Peter _wails_, a broken noise.

The warm scent of slick infiltrates Quentin’s headspace, filling him with the hot urge to claim, to taste, to fuck. Desire has never hit him quite so dizzyingly before. Peter’s legs begin to shake as Quentin keeps rimming him with teasing little kitten-licks.

Peter’s hips push back, trying to grind harder against Quentin’s lithe tongue, a stream of incoherent soft moans spilling from his mouth.

Quentin’s tongue flickers over his hole until it’s clenching for more, slick overflowing, sweet and heady, and then he mouths into Peter, letting him fuck himself back on Quentin’s tongue in a desperate, filthy motion.

Alongside his tongue, he thrusts a finger shallowly into Peter, the ample amount of slick allowing it to easily slip inside. 

Peter breathes his name and he pauses to rub his cheek against Peter’s hip, stubble scraping the soft skin, and Peter makes a strangled noise at the feeling.

One finger becomes two easily enough, the heat of Peter’s insides clamping tight around the digits when Quentin crooks his fingers and rubs upwards. Peter’s palms clamp over his eyes as he pleads in a shaky voice, “More, n-need more.”

“You want my cock?” Quentin says, “ask for it.”

“Daddy, please,” Peter immediately begins babbling, “please, I need it, want your Alpha cock in my pussy, need you to fuck me, make me cum again.”

Quentin rises up to his feet, finally hooking his fingers in his underwear and pulling them down his legs in one go. They disappear over his shoulder the same way Peter’s clothes had.

He grabs a condom from the pile he’d left on the nightstand specifically for this reason, takes a second to roll it on, and lines himself up with Peter’s ass.

Peter makes a noise like a sob when Quentin’s cock presses against him, warm and blunt and thick. 

He should probably give Peter a second to adjust, but Peter’s so wet and stretched out, it doesn’t matter either way. He pushes in inch by inch, not stopping for a second. Peter breathes harshly, his body trembling under Quentin’s.

It’s so good inside him, heat clamping down on Quentin’s dick, slick making it so fucking easy for his cock to bottom out.

Quentin’s stomach swoops at the noise Peter makes as the Alpha’s hips hit his ass, high and desperate. He can’t find the careful restraint with which he’s always held back, not with Peter clenching tight and warm around his dick, his hips rocking back already like he can’t help himself, the muscles in his back shifting under his skin.

Quentin fucks him hard from the start, hands gripping Peter’s hips to pull him back to meet every harsh thrust. Peter’s moaning brokenly, the upper half of his torso against the bed, hips lifted off, his back arching at an extreme angle. Peter’s always been so flexible, and Quentin’s glad to be able to put it to use.

Peter’s whole body jerks with every thrust, slick making an obscene squelching noise as Quentin’s dick plunges into him each time. Peter’s too hot, too wet, and as he mewls, “Please, please Daddy, I need to cum, let me cum,” nearly mindless with the feeling of Quentin’s thick cock slamming into him, Quentin feels the urge to claim rise up inside him, demanding and urgent.

He slicks his own wrist along Peter’s, hot skin dragging against hot skin, and Peter keens, his hips jerking at the feeling. His Alpha scent layers over Peter’s, and even if it’s not a permanent claim, nothing like marking Peter’s neck would be, it makes cool satisfaction wash through Quentin’s body to have Peter smelling like him. 

He doesn’t think once about the consequences, too caught up in the fever pitch of his own desire to realize that what he’s done is potentially very dangerous. 

He pulls Peter’s wrists over his head, pinning them both down to the bed with one hand, his chest pressing to Peter’s back. He can’t see the Omega’s face but the back of his neck is flushed, the scent gland working overtime. He tightens his grip on Peter’s boney wrists until Peter cries out, and writhes under him.

His teeth ache with the urge to sink into the gentle curve of Peter’s neck, intensified after the way he’d scented Peter’s wrists without another thought. He’s close, that much is evident from the tightening of his stomach, the heat building inside him. The dark urge to rip the condom off and cum inside Peter’s pliant body slams into him, and it nearly makes him breathless, the image of Peter’s pink, swollen hole leaking out his cum.

It’s an animalistic urge that he lets himself think about only for a fraction of a second, the way Peter would sob at the unfamiliar feeling, his brows drawing together, thick thighs trembling under him. It’s that image that finally pulls him over the edge with a moan of Peter’s name, hands digging into Peter’s hips to pull him back against his cock. He cums mouthing at Peter’s shoulder, teeth digging in just shy of where they want to be, and Peter cries out, a full-on shudder working through his body.

Even after he cums, he keeps pounding into Peter’s willing body, and when he says breathlessly, “You can cum,” Peter does it nearly on command, back arching and his cock twitching, spurting against the sheets as he keeps tugging at his dick until he’s boneless, letting Quentin do all the work.

Quentin slides out all at once, and Peter’s hole gapes for a second, tightening around nothing, and Quentin’s eyes widen fractionally at the sight.

Peter splays flat on his stomach as he regains his breath, Quentin dropping next to him on his side, idly rubbing his knuckles across the side of Peter’s ribs.

The moments afterward pass quickly and without hassle. Peter showers quickly while Quentin strips the bed, then Quentin rinses himself off as well, and joins Peter under the fresh bedding.

They should both compose themselves. Quentin should tell Peter to leave soon, and then they can go back to their normal selves until their next encounter of this kind. Instead, Peter curls into his side under the sheets, nosing into his neck and inhaling deeply. Peter exhales a tiny content noise, and Quentin’s heart pangs at the sound. Peter may be Spider-Man and he may be Mysterio, but Peter is also an Omega he’s just very thoroughly bedded, and his Alpha instincts are telling him to relax, to ensconce Peter with his body and keep him safe.

And so, Quentin wraps an arm around him and pulls him even closer, until he’s splayed over the Alpha’s chest, head tucked under Quentin’s chin. Into Peter’s hair, he says softly, “this is unorthodox, isn’t it?”

Peter hums, the vibration traveling through both their bodies when they’re so close. “Who cares?” He mumbles, cheek pressed against Quentin’s collarbone. He arcs his head back, presses a blind kiss to the underside of Quentin’s jaw. “Your beard still feels weird.”

Quentin scoffs, reaching down to take Peter’s wrist in his hand. His thumb idly works back and forth over the scent gland, and Peter’s breath becomes uneven. “No, don’t,” he whines, oversensitive, “you already scented me and I’m going to have to find a way to try and hide that because blockers don’t work on me anyways.”

“And why’s that?”

Peter hums against his throat. “I dunno, I guess the same reason alcohol or tranq-_hey_,” his voice rises in pitch, taking on a more accusatory tone. “No work talk.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I was just curious.” Quentin yelps in surprise when Peter abruptly sits up on his hips, trapping his wrists in spindly fingers and pinning them above his head.

He tries to raise them a little but finds himself completely trapped by Peter’s vice-like grip. Right. Super strength.

Peter playfully nips at his throat, a little smile curling on his lips when he realizes how easily he’s turned the tables on their power dynamic. Maybe he’d been the one in charge all along, only allowing Quentin to do as he’d pleased because it had served to benefit him as well.

Peter ducks down and kisses him, soft and sweet, and Quentin finds that he doesn’t really care either way.

When their mouths finally separate, Peter licks his swollen lower lip and rolls off him. “This was good,” he says, a little breathless and flushed from making out. “Like, when I was thinking about this whole thing, I was sure it would end up in us trying to kill each other. But I’m really glad it didn’t.”

As he speaks, he grabs his clothes off the floor, dressing in record time, and makes his way out of the room, and after a second of contemplation, Quentin trails after him.

Peter gathers his meager belongings rather quickly, slipping his phone into his pocket without looking at it. He glances at Quentin, eyes sweeping over his naked body, the flush on his cheeks deepening just a little. “O-okay,” he stumbles over the word, “Text me the next time you’re free, I guess. Or I’ll text you.”

Quentin smirks. “Sure,” he agrees, propping his hip against the kitchen counter. “You comin’ through the door again, or should I expect Spider-Man on my balcony?”

“I’ll let you know.” Peter rocks back awkwardly on his heels, shoving his hands into the pockets of his joggers. “So, like,” he hesitates, glancing at Quentin through his eyelashes. “Can I, um, kiss you goodbye? Is that allowed?”

“Nope. Not allowed,” Quentin deadpans.

It only takes two seconds of Peter’s crestfallen face for him to backtrack with a chuckle. “I’m kidding, Parker. Get over here.”

“That wasn’t very nice, Mr. Beck,” Peter mumbles as he steps forward and reaches a hand up, curling it around the Alpha’s jaw to pull him down to a more convenient height. 

The kiss is mellow and soft, and Peter sighs a little as they part, eyes still closed when Quentin straightens.

Peter gives him a flustered little smile. “Text you” he promises, and then he’s gone.

-

One time turns into two, which quickly turns to four within the span of two weeks. Peter’s irresistible, all wide eyes and splotchy pink cheeks whenever Quentin says something even vaguely racy. It’s an easy routine that they develop, and Quentin’s falling into the habit of texting Peter his free days as well as receiving the Omega’s own.

And everything is comfortable and good.

At least, it is until he walks into his apartment a good month after he’d first started his thing with Peter and finds a 6’2 wall of muscle in a red spandex suit perched on the arm of his couch holding a gun in his hand.


	2. Chapter 2

Wade’s trying to be a Good Samaritan for the kid’s sake, he really, truly is. He hasn’t taken many assassination jobs or done anything particularly maiming or twisted to anyone he’s fought in months (okay, maybe weeks, but at least he’s trying), and if he had to admit to himself why exactly he’s been holding back so much, it would chalk up to one sweet little Peter Parker, Omega superhero extraordinaire. 

Omega heroes are few and far in between for a reason. Peter’s the kind of slender that’s enough to have anyone staring at the gentle slope of the nape is his neck, unblemished and unmarked.

Wade can’t help but wonder what it would be like to sink his teeth into that pretty neck in the heat of the moment, the hot kind of urgency flowing through a frantic body. 

Peter’s _adorable_, absolutely sunshine and motherfucking butterflies whenever he catches Wade watching him when he has his mask pushed up to his forehead, cheeks flushing as he quickly averts his eyes. It took so long for Wade to be able to gain enough of Peter’s trust to be able to see that face, with its wide brown eyes and little constellations of freckles that are only visible when you look up close.

It had taken a year of Wade being on his best behavior and constant pestering gentle persuasion for Peter to have lightened up enough to reveal his secret identity. 

Even then, he’d been sworn to secrecy via pinky promise (Wade had to try his hardest not to squeal when Peter had held his hand out expectantly), and he’s definitely going to make good on it. It’s all worth it the second Peter had pulled his mask off to reveal the sparkliest eyes Wade has ever seen, a lock of light brown hair falling in a wave over his forehead. Wade’s fingers had twitched with the urge to smooth it back. 

Then, a little shyly, Peter had said, “My name is Peter Parker.” 

Peter’s trust is something to be treasured, in Wade’s eyes. He’s a good kid, sweet and stubborn as hell. And, if the way he stumbles over his words a little when Wade holds his hand under the table at Avengers meetings where Wade is barely allowed and Peter spends all his time looking like he wishes he could be anywhere else is any indication, Peter is just as infatuated.

Peter’s been on his mind all night, try as he may to think about anything else. He’s been wandering the city for about an hour now, and somehow he winds up in Queens because of course he does. 

-

Wade is well versed in the art of nightmares. Half the time when he sleeps, his dreams are an amalgamation of shadowy figures, pain, and loss. The other half, he couldn’t remember if he tried. 

Peter started this whole thing when he was painfully young—fifteen, he knows because he likes to think he knows Peter inside and out.

Fifteen’s an awfully young age to be doing all this caped crusader shit (or, Wade guesses, skin-tight spandex’ed crusader), and as much as Peter likes to throw around that he’s fine, that he’s been doing this for three years now and he’s used to it, Wade knows what happens when the lights are out. 

He’s swung by Peter’s place in the middle of the night a couple of times, whether for help on a mission or just to annoy the kid a little, and by chance, he’d come across Peter asleep more than once. Well, if thrashing about his bed and cold-sweating all over can be synonymous with sleeping.

Tonight, he slides into Peter’s window and sits for a bit on the edge of Peter’s desk, wondering if he should wake him up. Peter’s skin has a sickly sheen to it, sweat slick and waxy. He whimpers in his sleep, breath uneven.

Wade doesn’t know exactly what makes him do it— he’s not exactly a bleeding heart, but he’s got a strange soft side for Peter Parker. He saunters over to the bed and before his better judgement can convince him otherwise (who is he kidding, he doesn’t _have_ better judgement, Wade’s living on impulse at this point), he rubs his knuckles over Peter’s clammy, tear-wet cheek and snarks, “I was hoping you’d be wet when I came by, but tears and sweat aren’t exactly what I meant.”

Peter’s eyes fly open, his hand automatically reaching up to grab Wade’s wrist. He flings Wade away instinctively and Wade goes flying across the room. The only thing that stops him from becoming a Deadpool-pancake on Peter’s wall is quick reflexes, his boots thumping against the wall as he catches himself.

But fuck, the impact hurts, a pulse of pain going through his legs and up his thick thighs.

“_Wade_?” Peter gapes, hands folding together in front of his mouth in surprise. 

“Honey, I’m home,” Wade says, voice raspy from having the wind knocked out of him, hands splaying out in surrender. 

He’s so lucky Peter’s aunt isn’t home, as the cursory glance through the other windows of the apartment had told him before he’d slipped in through Peter’s window, or he’d probably have to do something like hide in Peter’s closet or under his bed like some shitty teen movie from the 90’s. Actually, maybe Wade’s a little sorry May isn’t home. Getting to play romcom with Peter sounds absolutely peachy.

Peter’s still staring, all wide eyes and tears drying on a flushed face, so Wade continues, walking back over to the bed, “You know, it really isn’t polite to throw your guests into the wall at first sight. Especially when they’re just trying to make sure you’re not having a heart attack in your sleep.”

Peter gathers his bearings enough to shake his head and say, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was…”

“About to drop kick me out the window? It’s okay, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been flung around the bedroom.”

Peter gives him a look for that one. 

“Seriously, Webs, you okay?” Wade asks, crossing his arms in front of his chest, rolling back on his heels. “Preheat symptoms? Hallucinogenic gas?” 

Peter drags a hand through his disheveled hair and makes a noise of frustration. “It’s just a stupid nightmare. No big deal. Did you need something?”

“Just your company, baby boy.” Wade pulls off his katanas, lets the belt with his gun holsters drop unceremoniously to the floor with a heavy thud that makes Peter wince delicately, and even steps out of his boots, taking off just enough so his skin isn’t exposed but there aren’t any pointy edges for Peter to have to dodge.

“What are you doing?” Peter asks, more curious than upset, much to Wade’s delight. 

“Spooning the fuck out of you,” Wade says distractedly as he pulls Peter’s blanket aside and maneuvers his body onto the tiny bed. Really, Peter needs to look into getting a new bed— Wade’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to comfortably fit in this one by himself, if he stretched his long legs out all the way.

Peter makes a faint noise in protest when Wade grabs his waist and pulls him closer so they're back-to-chest, Wade’s arm swinging over Peter’s ribcage, but Wade says insistently, “S’like a weighted blanket.”

Peter doesn’t loosen up at all under his hands, his muscles still taut with tension. He’s on high alert, and for what?

Wade heaves a heavy sigh and drags a hand up and down Peter’s ribs. “Relax, sweetheart,” he says into Peter’s hair, “I could give you a reach around handy if that helps.”

Instead of answering, Peter starts to shift. It crosses Wade’s mind that joking about a handjob when Peter’s been reliving his trauma all night in his dreams may not have been the best course of action, but Peter doesn’t pull away like he’d expected. Instead, he turns around so they’re face to face, hands creeping up to rest on Wade’s chest. 

“Doesn’t have to be reach around,” Peter says, eyes lowered and voice soft. 

“As good as that sounds, why don’t we take care of this first,” Wade sweeps a gloved thumb under Peter’s eye. He’s not actively crying anymore, but the tacky wetness on his face as well as his swollen eyes give him away easily.

“What,” Wade cracks a smile. “Game of Thrones finale? That shit made me cry too, don’t worry about it.”

“Right,” Peter says, the shadow of a smile on his lips. “That’s why.”

“We could talk about it if you want,” Wade says, “Doctor Deadpool’s just like Oprah. If Oprah was a merc with a penchant for sleeping with the person she’s interviewing.”

Peter huffs out a stifled giggle at that, ducking down to press his face to Wade’s neck. “Or Doctor Deadpool could just keep doing this,” he says pointedly. _This_ refers to Wade’s hand, idly making its way up and down Peter’s back in a soothing motion.

“Hmm,” Wade hums, pretending to think, “I don’t know, he’s a pretty expensive doctor. What would you give him in exchange?”

Peter props himself up on an elbow, his skinny fingers dragging up over the front of Wade’s suit

They’ve done this a couple times before, in the heat of the moment. The “we both survived with only moderate trauma and need human contact _right now_” kind of getting off, desperate and sloppy, hands grabbing on wherever they can reach, hisses of pain when Peter’s fingers dig into a still healing gash on his shoulder, moans that go muffled into each other’s mouths. 

Wade’s familiar with Peter’s mouth in that context, but this kiss is slower, sweeter than most of their previous ones. Peter tugs his mask all the way off, then curls his palm over Wade’s jaw, his skin painfully smooth against Wade’s scar tissue, and brings their mouths together in a soft lingering kiss. 

Wade’s on cloud nine just being _around_ Peter, getting to breathe in his warm scent and run his hands up and down the Omega’s back. He strokes the scent gland at the top of Peter’s spine with his scarred fingers, feels a hum of desire reverberate in Peter’s chest at the feeling, his body going relaxed and pliant in Wade’s arms. 

Just that much is enough for Wade, but Peter being the one to initiate, to prop himself up on an elbow and lean forward to kiss Wade, that’s enough to send the Alpha in him into overdrive. 

He grabs Peter’s wrist and pulls it from his jaw to his mouth, breaking their kiss to lick over the thin skin, the scent gland that’s making Omega pheromone permeate in the air between them. 

Peter’s breath hitches at the feeling, his hands curling into tight fists. “Please,” he breathes shakily.

He inhales, craving Peter’s warm Omega scent, but instead… 

“Petey,” Wade says a little stiffly, “why do you smell like someone else?” The scent is faint, probably from several days ago, and he’d nearly missed it at first, but it’s undoubtedly there, piney and possessive, right on top of Peter’s.

Peter blinks, seemingly in surprise, but then realization makes his eyes go wide. “Oh!” He gasps, pulling his wrist back suddenly. “Well you see, there’s this Alpha I’ve been— well, not _seeing_, because that would mean we’re exclusive. Which we’re obviously not, because I’m here with you. In fact, we’re not even dating or anything. We’re just _super_ compatible, almost like you and me, and in the heat of the moment, he ended up kind of accidentally scenting me?” 

Peter’s voice dwindles down to a guilty murmur at the end. “I’m sorry. I should have warned you.” He starts to pull away completely.

“Nah,” Wade says, reaching out for Peter’s thin wrist again. He brings it back to his mouth, pressing a quick kiss to the throbbing scent gland. “You don’t have to apologize, Spidey, it’s not like it’s bothering me. I love me a good strong Alpha, even if your last one wasn’t exactly a fan of me.”

MJ had been… interesting to say the least. Wade had only met her twice, right after finding out Spider-Man’s secret identity a while back, and Wade had immediately taken a liking to both of Peter’s little high school friends. He’d bonded with Ned over geek culture and video games, but MJ had been more suspicious of him, her Alpha nature and relationship with Peter only adding to her distrust. 

Which, Wade can’t exactly blame her for. He’s as scummy and unworthy of trust as she’d suspected, and even though she’d eventually warmed up to him after he’d dragged an unconscious Spider-Man to her window after a particularly bad night of patrol ending in a fight with some mafia members, she’s still wary of him, even now that she and Peter aren’t together anymore, deciding that they’re better off as friends.

MJ’s mile-wide protective streak for her friends aside, Wade knows that although he and Peter are stupidly compatible as Alpha and Omega from their obvious attraction, they’re not in a real relationship. Wade’s never spent a heat with Peter. In fact, he’s pretty sure no one has, given Peter’s cautious nature. So really, he has no problem if Peter’s sleeping around with other Alphas. Wade isn’t one of those idiotic dick-for-brains Alphas who feel the need to assert their dominance and possession over Omegas just for the kick of it. 

Peter still looks a little wary, though. “It’s not that it would bother you that I’m seeing another Alpha. It’s just that the Alpha I’m seeing,” he bites his lip in hesitation, “it’s Mysterio.”

A million things go through Wade’s mind at once. Of course he knows Mysterio, he’d had a couple run ins with the infamous fishbowl himself, while working with Peter. He’s never seen Mysterio without the glass dome, and he doesn’t know much about Peter’s past with him. The once he’d gotten his hands (okay, not hands exactly, more like car) on the man though, he’d nearly killed him. It had only been at Peter’s insistence that they save Mysterio’s life instead, taking him to a hospital before Wade had been able to finish the job, that he’s still alive and fine now.

A sudden rush of red-hot instinct slams into him, making his muscles tense. “Baby boy, you know I trust you to make your own decisions and all, but _fuck_, are you sure about this one? I can list like, a hundred other Alphas you know who are less likely to kill you right off the top of my head.”

“He’s not going to kill me, Wade,” Peter rolls his eyes, “we have a deal. I think the compatibility between us— it’s enough to overpower the other stuff. And it’s not like Mysterio’s exactly been the most nefarious villain lately anyways. It’s been months since he’s done anything worth Spider-Man looking into.”

Wade isn’t a weird, hypermasculine possessive Alpha. But Peter, sweet little Peter Parker and his big naive eyes and his pitchy soft voice, sleeping with someone who has literally tried to _murder_ him before? 

The words nearly pain him to spit out. “Are you sure?” Wade says, completely solemn for once. “That he won’t hurt you. That this isn’t part of some— some weird plot to brainwash you and hurt you? He’s not gonna like, kidnap you and make you watch him give a totally villainous but long-winded speech about how naive you were the whole time to trust him?”

Peter reaches out and grabs Wade’s jaw again, pulling him closer so their foreheads are pressed together. “I’m sure.” 

“Really sure? Like, willing to bet the entire value of Stark Industries sure?” 

Peter rolls his eyes good naturedly. “I’m thankful for the concern, Wade. But I’m sure. I’m safe.”

Wade makes a mental note to check up on Mysterio as soon as possible, but he has to shelve the thought as Peter kisses him again, sloppy but enthusiastic.

Yeah, he’s definitely going to have to find out exactly what the fuck Mysterio’s teaching Peter, especially when Peter rolls them over, pinning him by the hips and proceeds to kiss him until Wade can’t think anymore.

-

It’s almost laughable, how easily he can find out Mysterio’s full name (Quentin Beck, who the fuck names their kid _Quentin_) and address. It takes even less time to find a convenient point on the roof of the building across from Beck’s that lets him see into his apartment.

Wade’s been watching Mysterio for about a week now, and he’s getting antsy, following the guy around everywhere. He doesn’t go anywhere particularly villainous or seedy, visiting a bar a couple of times, going grocery shopping, and, in the most interesting event Wade had witnessed the whole time he’s been staking out Quentin Beck’s apartment, he’d jerked off once.

Wade’s hoping for some porn at least, anything to curb his fucking _boredom_, but Mysterio is having some (pretty hot, from the looks of it) phone sex, one hand on his cock, the other holding his phone to his ear. Unfortunately, Wade didn’t come equipped to eavesdrop, so he has to made do with making up an imaginary conversation. It goes something like “_Yeah, fuck, Peter, you want my big Alpha cock, don’t you? Even if its not as good as Deadpool’s, it’ll come at a close second. Beg for it, baby_.”

Typical badly-written sex scene shit. Wade’s no nineteen year old porn writing college student on the internet. 

Beck’s not exactly the epitome of villainy anyways, from what he’d been able to gather. Peter seems to trust him enough to- to make whatever weird ass arrangement they have, so Wade’s going to have to take his word for it when Peter says Quentin Beck isn’t an immediate threat to his safety. 

Now that that’s out of the way, he can think of how to worm his way into this relationship so he can cross two things off of his bucket list at once: 1) have a threesome with Spider-Man and 2) sleep with an Alpha bad guy.

Brainstorming ways to bring this up to both Peter and Mysterio is kind of a fruitless task, because in the end, Wade ends up doing what he does best- improvisation.

-

In hindsight, crouching on the arm of Mysterio’s couch like an overgrown bird is not the best way to curry his favor, but Wade’s never been good at foresight, and in the moment, it feels really badass to be perched on the leather in the dark, waiting for Mysterio to come home. So yeah, it makes his thighs hurt a little to stay squatting like a Notre Dame gargoyle, but Wade’s all about the theatrics.

From the second Wade spots him entering the building downstairs, it only takes three or four minutes for Mysterio’s door to start rattling as he unlocks it, and Wade feels anticipation fill him. This is either going to end in them fucking or fighting, and he’s prepared for both.

The second the light goes on, Wade starts speaking.

“Mysterio, huh? I want to say I don’t know what Peter sees in you, but honestly, I kind of get it. Real Alpha’s Alpha, aren’t you?” Wade grins under his mask as Mysterio’s eyes widen comically in surprise.

“Ah, and those pretty blue eyes. Peter’s weak for the eyes, you know.” Wade gestures to the couch. “Sit down, prettyboy, we have some things to discuss.”

Quentin doesn’t have any weapons on him (lame, Wade always keeps at least a spare switchblade in his boot for situations like this) but he starts to dive for a drawer.

Wade had anticipated this beforehand, and when Quentin reaches for the gun he keeps in the kitchen drawer, he comes up empty.

“Surprise!” Wade says, swinging it around his finger. “Don’t bring a gun to a cock fight. Relax, Beck, I’m not here to stop you from seeing Peter or anything. You don’t want to know what a big bad mercenary like me wants with you?”

Thankfully, Quentin doesn’t try to fight unnecessarily. Wade _really_ doesn’t need another murder or maiming on his track record, or Peter’s never going to let him hang around again. Mysterio holds his hands up in front of him in surrender, staring at him with wary eyes. “What do you want?”

Wade narrows his eyes, lowers his voice so it’s husky and sexy. “You,” he says, dead serious for about five seconds before he bursts out laughing. “Is that was Peter said? Don’t worry, I promise I’m _much_ better at dropping lines than he is.” 

Mysterio crosses his arms in front of his (okay, Wade has to admit it, surprisingly bulky and kind of sexy) chest.

“If you’re going to lecture me on this thing with Peter, you can save your time.” 

“Oh no,” Wade says, guileless and wide-eyed, “I’m not trying to lecture you, I’m trying to get into your pants. Well, yours and Peter’s. At the same time. Preferably.”

Mysterio’s eyes narrow on him. “What are you talking about?”

Wade shrugs. “It’s simple, Mister Soulful Eyes and Perfect Beard. _You’re_ sleeping with Peter, _I’m _sleeping with Peter. None of us are trying to kill each other at this point in time. It’s practically a movie scenario- like a really bad movie on pornhub with abnormally attractive actors, by the way, but a movie I’d beat it to nonetheless. We can call it “_Two Hot Daddies Fill Slutty Baby Boy With Alpha Cum._” 

Quentin Beck is staring at him, dark brows furrowed together in confusion. Slowly, he says, “What the fuck.” 

“More like _who_ to fuck. I promise this suit isn’t padded, this bubble butt is as genuine as they come.”

“You’ve tried to kill me before.”

“And you’ve tried to kill Peter before. Maybe not as ruthlessly since Italy, but it’s still on your file.” Wade taps the side of his head. “That makes us even, doesn’t it?”

He can practically see the gears in Mysterio’s head turning as he thinks. “Does he, y’know, trust you and all that?”

“Peter trusts anyone much too easily,” Wade says, eyes narrowing behind his mask. “That’s why I’m here right now.” 

At that confession, Mysterio’s shoulders loosen a little. “Ah,” he breathes, stepping closer. “You’re nothing but Peter’s glorified rabid guard dog.” 

“Woof,” Wade says, and suddenly has a lap full of Quentin Beck. Quentin tugs the gun away (unloaded, Wade’s glad he remembered to do that) and tosses it to the floor.

“Bad dog,” he chides, and presses his fingers to Wade’s neck, dangerously close to his windpipe. Wade’s a simple man. Asphyxiation (or any approximation of it) makes his breath quicken. Beck raises an eyebrow, rolling his hips forward, and it’s almost laughable how quick Wade’s dick starts filling out. Ten minutes ago, Wade was sure this would end with him putting a bullet through Mysterio’s temple, and now they’re practically dry humping on his couch, probably inches away from where Mysterio fucked the daylights out of Peter.

Wade stiffens as Mysterio moves closer, hand gripping the top of his mask. “You’ve seen my face,” he breathes, voice going soft, sultry and mesmerizing. Gods, no wonder Peter’s enamored, Quentin Beck is fucking beautiful. “Let me see yours.”

Wade is too busy trying not to melt in Beck’s deep blue eyes, his long lashes that turn golden at the ends in the lamplight, to be prepared for the shitshow that’s surely going to follow Mysterio seeing his face as he pulls Wade’s mask off.

Only, Mysterio doesn’t even flinch at his rough, scarred skin. His eyes widen a bit, but he stays where he is. Finally, an odd sort of smile spreads across his wide, soft mouth, and he says, “does the dick match the face?”

“Okay, _now_ I know why Peter likes you so much. You’re a freak, Beck.” Wade grins, slow and easy, his hands sliding over Mysterio’s hips. “You like making Peter bend over for you? Big strong Alpha like you, bet you have no problem telling Peter exactly what to do.” 

Quentin raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, did you want a turn?”

Wade’s grin grows. “Now you’re getting it.”

Quentin grabs Wade’s jaw, tips his head back forcefully, leans in like he’s going to kiss him. Bites his lower lip instead, and it makes Wade groan, tightening his grip on Quentin’s hips.

“How the fuck do you take this off?” Quentin snaps, scratching his nails down Wade’s chest. Instead of answering, Wade stands up, nearly spilling the other Alpha onto the floor in the process. He gets an indignant hiss and a kick in the shin for that, but he ignores it, finding the little hidden zipper along one of the seams of his suit.

“Huh,” Quentin says from where he’s sprawled on the sofa, “I’ve always wondered how that worked.”

“You wanna see how this works?” Wade asks, fisting a hand down his dick, slow and dry.

Quentin slaps a hand out, hits his hip easily. “Why are you such a frat boy?” He says, vaguely amused as he digs his fingers into Wade’s hips and drags him down on top of himself. Wade goes down willingly, bracketing Quentin’s hips with his knees,

Quentin kisses him properly this time, sucking his lower lip into his mouth, sweeping his tongue along the scar tissue before licking into his mouth, hand creeping down between them to wrap around Wade’s dick, still excruciatingly dry, and it burns so fucking good, Wade groans low into his mouth and fucks up into his fist.

It’s frantic, rushed and needy, Wade backing off to fumble with the button of Quentin’s jeans, shoving them down his legs until they tangle at his knees, freeing his cock, rucking his shirt up and thumbing over his nipples. Quentin, infuriatingly enough, isn’t phased in the slightest, cocking his eyebrow and staring him down when Wade runs a finger up the length of his dick, tracing a vein there. If not for the uneven rise and fall of his chest, the slow flush blooming across his cheeks, Wade would think his harried ministrations were having no effect.

Wade ducks down, bites at his collarbone, and Quentin’s breath stutters, hips bucking up like he can’t help it. _Aha_, Wade can’t help but think, and lines up their hips, the hot drag of their dicks nearly too much. He shoves two fingers into Quentin’s mouth, and to his surprise, doesn’t get his fingers bit off. Quentin sucks his fingers deeper into his mouth, tongue smoothing down the digits, and when he pulls off, he spits, “Need some fucking _lube_, god—”

Because neither of them have that particular ability, to self-lubricate, and Wade’s pretty sure if he has to get up to go grab some from the bedroom, he’s going to end up with the barrel of a gun pressed to his forehead when he comes back, he shoves all four fingers into Quentin’s mouth this time, watches him struggle not to gag around them.

Quentin’s not the same kind of pretty Peter is. He’s pretty, of course, with his long eyelashes and perfect beard, his broad shoulders and a surprisingly slender waist. But he’s not delicate and bony, not something Wade wants to be careful with. Of course, Peter’s durable as hell and that extra level of care isn’t quite _necessary_, but Wade wants to be gentle with Peter anyways. Every time Wade looks at Mysterio, though, he gets the indomitable urge to fuck him up.

So Wade shoves his fingers deeper into Quentin’s mouth until he can feel the way the back of his throat flutters around them, and Quentin grabs his wrist, wrenching them free. “Fuck you,” he rasps, sticky strings of saliva webbing between Wade’s scarred fingers and his mouth. He scratches his nails down Wade’s back, much harder than he needs to, and Wade hisses, sure for a moment that he’s drawn blood. It’ll heal within minutes, though, so he ignores it and slides his slippery fingers down to wrap around both of their cocks.

Quentin chokes over a moan, his fingers scrabbling to hold onto Wade’s broad back, rolls their hips together, and Wade’s eyes roll back into his head, it’s so fucking good. The slide’s so much easier now, still drier than he’d prefer, but he can work with it. Wade kisses him again, sloppy and frantic, fucks his tongue into Quentin’s mouth in a messy approximation of how their hips are moving.

Quentin’s teeth sink into Wade’s shoulder without warning, and he does a kind of full-body shiver that looks like it came straight out of Wade’s spank bank, and the next thing he knows, Wade has a handful of cum, sticky and thick over his cock. He uses the slippery friction to fist around his cock, jerks himself off until he cums with a low moan, his cum splattering across Quentin’s hipbone.

Wade sits up slowly, still kind of pissed that his back’s scratched up, but that was… inordinately good. Like, incredibly good. And judging from the way Quentin sits up as well, clears his throat and says, “Well, that was weird,” he feels the same way.

Wade twists his mouth thoughtfully, grabbing a couple tissues from the box on the table to do a meager cleanup job. Quentin lets him fuck around for a couple seconds before he pushes him away and says, “I’m taking a shower, this is gross.”

_This_ refers to the load Wade just blew all over his lean stomach, and Wade kind of agrees. There’s nothing more disgusting than cum drying into a happy trail. Wade’s kinda glad he doesn’t have that problem anymore.

“Okay, but threesome?” Wade prompts, standing up and dressing. “You, me, Peter?”

Quentin blinks. “I don’t even know your real name.”

“Wade,” he says easily, grabbing his mask and shoving it down over his head. Quick and efficient.

“Okay, _Wade_,” Quentin says, and stands. “Threesome, I guess.”

Wade makes his way to the window, and before he ducks out, he adds on quickly, “Okay, I’ll talk to Peter about this and let you know.”

Quentin chokes out, “_You didn’t tell Peter_?!” But Wade’s already gone with a cackle of glee.

**Author's Note:**

> [twt](https://twitter.com/_johnten) / [cc](https://curiouscat.me/slimequeen)


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